


The Sketch Book

by MadameFolie



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Drabble, Drabble Collection, Gen, Historical, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-09-14 07:30:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 2,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16908756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadameFolie/pseuds/MadameFolie
Summary: Scenes and sketches, moments in time.





	1. Denmark/Norway, Stay

**Author's Note:**

> Decided to load these up from tumblr for archival purposes. Hope you enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Took prompts to celebrate two years on the blue hellsite! This one: "Norway/Denmark, your choice of time period - Stay as long as you like"
> 
> Set dials to 15th century!

The chamber is already occupied.

Denmark hasn’t heard the door open; he is bent over the new instrument by the window, the little box with ivory levers and the fussy parquet surface. This late at night, he’s shed his outer layers for his breeches and shirt. And he is very slowly attempting to pick out a tune. Even from the door Norway can tell his fingers are stiff and unpracticed. Every so often he has to lean over to read the sheets positioned on the backboard with a dullard’s expression on his face.

Norway lets the door fall shut behind him hard.

Denmark jerks upright were he sits. But of course, he’s all too happy to see him– in spite of the interruption. Norway helps himself to a seat in one of the cushioned chairs by the reading table. There is a bottle of wine and a cup on the far side, long forgotten.

“Nor!” He grins. “Yer still up, too, huh?” Norway refills the cup and sets it down at hand. If Denmark isn’t done with the wine, then he’s ceded his claims to it by negligence. There is the added benefit of its having had time to decant.

“’course,” he finally settles on in reply. “Ain’t so late yet.” The days are longer this far south, even in the depths of winter. It…doesn’t treat his body kindly. On a closer examination of the study, he finds papers scattered across the floor and a poorly-fed fire in the hearth. Denmark laughs unselfconciously and rakes his fingers through his hair, checking over his sheet music again as if he must have missed the trick to it on the first several reads.

“Yeah, guess not. Didn’t figure ya for a night creature.”

He suspects there’s plenty his brother doesn’t know. Still, he doesn’t need to know everything. Norway shrugs his shoulders and opens his book. The leather covers are heavy in his hands. If this response bothers Denmark, he doesn’t say. He only turns back to his music and resumes tapping at the keys.


	2. Norway+Iceland, Brothers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One for the amnesty pile, a story that never quite formed up about strange young men raising strange children.

I.  
When the wind calls out to Norway one night, he raises his head to listen. Neither man nor beast  
There he finds a squalling child swaddled by the reeds and earth. The infant looks like a human child, but when he holds it close to his chest he can feel the simmer and surge of magma in his small veins and he knows the boy is one of his kind.  
  
  
II.  
He is no fool, he knows he cannot feed the child. It will take more than a missed meal to harm the infant, but it cries – gods how it _cries_ – and it is not long before he swallows his pride and seeks out a wet nurse in the village. In return, the women put him to work. He is too slight to steer a plow, so they teach him their trades instead. He learns to card wool and spin it, and how to weave the thread. The child feeds, the women talk and laugh and card and spin and Norway listens and learns. He learns to clean a kill and cook it. In the spring they send him out to mind the sheep. The dog picks its way in circles about the herd and Norway imagines the foundling a child, wavering along behind the creature swiping for its tail.  
  
By summer, the infant still has not grown and the women grow wary. Norway fixes the foundling to his back and walks south, to the next village and the next […?]

  
  
III.  
He spends some time on the child’s island, among his people. The people of the child’s land are many once from his own. They farm, just as they had on the mainland. They  
It is there that he learns the child’s name for his self: Island, for the snow and the ice floes.  
One morning as he is weaving in the shadow of the house he allows his mind to wander. A pair of girls run by, wash-pails clattering against the earth as they race each other home. He can hear his language on their tongues – the language of his self and the child. Their contentment was his contentment, now is the child’s contentment. The child lies asleep on his back and he sings a spell into his work, fingers picking and twisting blessings into the blanket-to-be.  
  
He is able to trade his craft for anything he wishes. After all, children swaddled in his cloth do not get ill.  
  
When he is asked, he introduces the two of them as brother refugees. A blood feud decimated their home and they sought their fortune abroad, the story goes. It is true enough, he supposes. And it satisfies the humans well enough.  
  
As soon as he is able to stand, Iceland follows him like a shadow.


	3. Norway/Denmark, Taking It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, okay. Technically, the prompt was "100 words of taking it up the ass".

Shit. One hundred years, and it’s like nothing’s changed. The way Norway feels inside him, the way even just the head of Norway’s cock spreads his body open as he pushes in– hell, if someone told Denmark it’d only been a matter of days, he’d believe them.

He swallows. His body remembers. His body remembers every inch of Norway inside him, every imprint of his fingertips on Denmark’s skin, the fit of his hips between Denmark’s legs, everything. It’s so beautiful he could cry. _Is_ crying a little, probably. Ain’t any shame in that.

“Please,” he begs. His body remembers, and he aches right down to his bones for it.

Norway holds a hand over his mouth. It feels slick, he’s got to be salivating. He’s got to be. 

“Shh.” He pushes in just a little bit further, good and slow. “We got all the time in the world.”


	4. Sweden/Denmark, Fightfucking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prompt was "100 words of Things Unexpectedly Heating Up".

Ha. He knew it. Sweden puts on a good face like he’s all that. Like he’s so respectable. Such a _gentleman_.

Not two minutes into a scrap on the flagstones and he’s hard as a rock between Denmark’s legs.

Because they can’t change who they are. The hunger for the thrill of a fight runs in their veins, it’s something they share between them like blood. He’s the one person Sweden can’t hide his ugliness from. And fuck, Denmark wants him. Wants every inch of that power and that rage, wrapping around him, searing into every muscle, splitting him open, hot as a brand. Sweden pulls his fist back to land another punch on Denmark’s face. (A real shit move when he drew blood on the first three.) Denmark rocks up against him just to get a snarl out of him. 

Sweden pushes his hips up into Denmark’s groin. Fuck, it’s perfect. Denmark tongues at his split lip and groans. His nails rake uselessly at Sweden’s stomach. He grabs for Sweden’s collar and tries to pull him down. 

Like he stands a chance. His pride takes a beating, but Sweden gets him pinned belly to the ground to grind up against him from behind. Sweden’s fingers stake his hair to the ground. When Denmark tries to move his head, the pressure on his neck is unbearable. He works himself against the floor as best as he can, stone warming with the heat of their bodies. Yeah, Denmark likes being right.


	5. Norway/Denmark, Tiny!dom/Big!sub

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On a boat!

The ship’s timbers creak and groan, straining under the pressure within. The cabin tilts port, ever so slightly…and Denmark must brace his thighs so that he doesn’t flip headlong over his bed’s railing. He has not got so many options, with his wrists bound to the balusters, and he keens.  
  
All his bulk shan’t serve him now, Norway thinks, watching how each muscle resists the rolling of the ship. He has but a moment’s reprieve as everything lists starboard, pulling the tendons of his arms tight. A neat folding of rag puts a damper on any complaint he might have. His cock is straining against his smallclothes, wetting the front. If Norway stands at the bedside, he clears Denmark’s head by a handspan or so.  
  
“Your log-keeping is abysmal,” Norway tells him. For it is. “And you will stay put until I am finished reviewing the mess you have made.”


	6. Norway+fem!Sweden+fem!Denmark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little snapshot of quieter times.
> 
> Please consider the giant warrior women.

In the late summer, they can shed their boots as they lie on the hillside a way’s walk from the village. They will not need to make a fire unless they wish it for heat– and so as the afternoon lengthens and sprawls, an ungainly collection forms. Boots, and belts. Sweden’s apron, Denmark’s tunic. Norway’s heavy shawl.

Sweden lies with her head upon a folded cloak– whose, Norway does not recall. Her eyes closed, her failing eyesight cannot trouble her. The entirety of her expression rests at ease. Denmark strikes the heads of the grass with a stick just to hear it catch. Norway braids small hillside flowers into Sweden’s hair.

The sea is not far. From here, one can still hear the cry of gulls, keening low against the waning summer sky.


	7. Denmark/Norway, First Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuago had an awesome concept, and I am weak to awesome concepts.

They can’t escape the scent of the battlefield. Even as they lie in the dark with the bed-curtains drawn around them, the sound of steel and of flesh tearing rings in their ears. Even with Denmark’s nose buried in his hair, the scent of death is stifling, suffocating. Festering, even as one large hand closes over Norway’s breast to feel the beating of his heart.

Norway knows he has grown thinner. His ribs stand out through the skin as war drains him from within. His own body, a memento mori. He’s cold. So cold, and he does not know if he’ll ever be warm again. He wraps his fingers around Denmark’s hand as if he could leach the heat from him.

“…hey.” Denmark breathes against his ear. Norway turns his head and warm lips meet his cheek, his lips. Norway shivers and grasps his hand tighter. He’d forgotten things could be so soft.

When Denmark’s lips find his own again, there is desperation in it. And heat. Norway sighs to feel it spread through him.

“Here,” he whispers, pushing Denmark’s hand down his sternum. Down his belly. Over his gut and between his legs. He’s not hard yet, but the alien sensation of Denmark’s palm kindles something heady. 

They lose themselves to the heat of it, and to the smell of sweat. Denmark crawls atop him, between his legs, and strokes at him with unsteady hands. His kisses are too rough, too fearful, and Norway gathers Denmark to him, locking his arms around his shoulders to spare the both of them. Denmark rocks hard against him.

It hurts, but then. A different kind of hurt, Norway supposes, is at least something new.


	8. France/Norway, On Subtlety

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Self-destruction, self-preservation, same difference.

“Subtlety, my dear.” The wine strikes the bowl of the glass, red as sparkling blood in the sun. France gives the bottle a twist so that the stream of wine flows– and stems, slowly. Norway watches it, from glass to drip, to fingers to wrist. To France’s knowing smile. “There are other means to make your way than sheer strength alone.”

He sets the bottle down, leaning his hip against the table. It will wrinkle the fine satin of his clothes. 

“Persuasion is a skill. And failing that, subterfuge.” He strokes a finger along the length of Norway’s jaw, until he has Norway’s chin and his attention both. “And of course, you’ve the benefit of that pretty face.”

This is true. Norway knows this is true, and that France of all of them should know of what he speaks.

Still, to hear it so, the urge rises in his gorge to dash the glass against the table. The urge to take the largest, cruelest shard in his hand and to rake it across his own face.

“I suppose,” Norway replies.


	9. Denmark/Norway, Size Difference

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's new, and he's unfortunately digging it.

Right there, in front of the soldiers and stewards gathered at the gate, Denmark wraps his arms around him and sweeps him from his feet. Norway’s heart nearly stops– Denmark spins a full turn with him in his arms. He’s too startled to protest. All he can do is grasp at Denmark’s shoulders and shout.

Months afield have changed him.

The shoulders under Norway’s hands are broader, they fit the palm neatly. From battle and time they have grown smooth with muscle. His chest his far broader now, too, and he must have grown taller. For when Norway’s body comes to rest, his feet meet only empty air. It has changed him. Changed them. And Norway feels it keenly in that instant.

Images flash through his mind unbidden like shadows cast on the wall by an engraved lamp: strong fingers twisted in his hair, his legs spread wide wide enough to ache. Muscle, heat, and sweat. His own ribs vivid against his skin. Open lips. Closed lashes. The coarseness growing in along Denmark’s jaw.

“Down!” Norway spits the words and prays his weakness does not show. “Down, now! Or I’ll have ya trussed fer dinner like th'beast ya are!”


	10. Denmark/Norway, Unhealthy Coping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1813, awaiting the worst in the days before the battle of Bornhöved.

It’s fucking freezing. It’s freezing, and the pain of battle burns. Nothing worse than holding camp in December, and God willing the cold will knock some sense into Sweden’s patrols. And they’ll be home soon. They’ll be home soon.

With two layers of shirting and a coat thrown over his shoulders for warmth, Norway looks more unwell than ever. The cost of war is eating away at the meat on his bones; any softness he’d had left is gone now, his skin turned ashen. His fingers are stiff as they pick at the cards of his loom. They’re like ice in Denmark’s hands.

Denmark only means to warm him.

He can’t– he can’t feel Norway, not like he used to. Not as a part of him. Maybe it’s because Norway’s so weak, maybe it’s from the cold. Maybe it’s all the death and the fire and the rot they can’t seem to drown out no matter how they try. He presses Norway’s fingers to his lips. He hates this feeling, this no-longer knowing him. It’s horrible.

“Wanna go home,” Denmark manages. His voice creaks under the strain of everything. Norway’s lips set in a hard line.

“I know.”

They can’t undress, and Denmark misses the sensation of Norway’s skin on his. He slips his hands beneath all the shirts just to feel some connection, any connection. His wounds ache and Norway is hard, spread across his legs. Denmark didn’t think he’d had the blood in him to spare. Poor excuse for fucking it is, they cling to each other, there in that tent. Doesn’t even feel good.

“Please,” Denmark breathes against his ear. “Please– please–”


	11. Denmark/Norway Historic Setting Dealer's Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The evening revel was popularized in the (mildly propagandistic) woodcut "Waltz Between M. D– and M. N– Upon the Eve of War".

“Be a mite unseemly,” Norway remarks, watching the pairs turn figures on the floor. Satin, braid, and jewels sparkle in the light. It’s like watching flowers spill across the ballroom. “Jumpin’ in an’ changin’ th’ order of business jus’ like that.”

“Right unseemly,” Denmark agrees. He smiles against the lip of his wineglass, one arm tucked behind his back. He stands straight as an oak tree in his scarlet evening wear; it’s difficult to reconcile the elegant change that has come over his person. And it would –will– be too easy to lose himself to that smile and the certitude of those arms. “Us swipin’ th'floor out from under ‘em.”

“Boorish.”

“Quite. So, might I steal ya for a waltz?”


	12. Denmark/Norway, Bad Decision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 18th century!

Denmark’s hands are unsteady as he braces them at Norway’s jaws. He presses his his teeth into his lip and studies Norway’s face, and Norway studies him right back.

They haven’t talked about that night. Norway has no intention of broaching the subject. He expects Denmark will not, either, not if he goes on like this. The kiss that comes at last is like the severing of an infected limb. There is a phantom pain in Norway’s lips when Denmark draws away.

“Hey, Nor,” he begins, and his voice is hoarse. Enough of this. Norway reaches for the fastenings of his shirt and begins ripping– ripping to strip him bare.


	13. Denmark/Norway, Possibly Good Decisions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Possibly_.
> 
> 1945-1952.

Just as he’s about to light up right there in that makeshift lounge, a hand catches him by the the shoulder. The grip is pretty strong, so he almost doesn’t recognize it at first; Denmark looks up, and behind him.

God, how could he have forgotten? The memory’s there, deeper than muscle and deeper than nerve as he turns into Norway’s touch. He feels it in the way his heart staggers, just for a second. It’s funny, the familiarity of the sensation –how naturally it comes after all this time– surprises him more than the touch itself. Makes sense. He hasn’t been alone in the same room as the guy in almost a century and a half.

This close, Denmark can see the shade of his tie isn’t really the right kind for those suspenders or those shoes. Sheesh, where’s Iceland when his brother needs him most? But the straps sit on more body, his face is softer, fuller. His nails probably aren’t cracking anymore.

A century and a half. That’s a lot of distance between them. He should– he should say something. Denmark opens his mouth. Feels like an idiot. Closes it. Swallows.

Fuck.

“That proposal ya gave,” Norway says. “Wrote all that by yourself, now?”

“…by myself, yeah.” He’s tired, they’re all tired. Might as well one of them say it. Denmark thumbs at the head of his lighter. Fuck, he’s so tired.

“Mm. Well spoken.” He releases Denmark. “Be thinking about those talking points.”

“‘ppreciate that,” Denmark is able to manage. He nods, hoping it makes him look more deliberate than he feels.

“'course. Be seeing you, then.” And he is gone.


End file.
